


violence is for men

by ficfucker



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Happy Ending, M/M, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:20:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23838985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficfucker/pseuds/ficfucker
Summary: joe hires a kid to help lift. larry tries not to fall in love.larry fails.
Relationships: Mr. Orange/Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 135





	1. rack the slide, show 'em what you got

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it " — richard siken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> au where freddy is never a cop, the guys run a closer inner circle

Larry is working with a good buzz, already disoriented from the hazy red lights of the bar, when Joe claps a hand on his shoulder and says, "Someone I want you and the crew to meet, Junior."

Larry was unaware Joe had been scouting new hires, let alone trusting one enough to hang around for introduction. He says, "Well, bring the new face out."

Joe tells Larry to partner up with Eddie and Vic, wait for him to come back around to the table. Larry listens. He's not fond of Vic so much, but Nice Guy Eddie seems to love the man (whatever that deal is, Larry keeps his nose out of it) so Larry tolerates the situation for the sake of business.

"What're you and Daddy talking about over yonder?" Eddie asks when Larry pulls up a seat.

"Says he got a new guy for the crew."

"Fresh meat," Vic mutters.

Eddie smiles, seems excited. "Ain't met him yet, but word is he's got fingers like magnets."

"That his deal?" Larry asks. He pulls out his carton of cigarettes and slides one between his teeth. "Theft?"

Eddie shrugs. "Only word I got is the dude is a killer klepto. Like, can pocket the ring right off your fucking finger."

Larry snorts. "Believe it when I see it."

Vic sips from his bottle, quiet and cool and observational. His default.

"Why's Joe bringing him out here of all places?" Larry asks.

Vic answers, "Forgiveness in the crowd."

Eddie laughs. "Less suspicious if we're just having a boys night."

Vic nods with the slightest dip of his chin. "Few fellas gossiping."

"Sure," Larry says, because it makes sense and despite asking, he doesn't really care for the answers. He thought maybe Eddie had some in tell, would slip up and give Larry an inch ahead, but it seems like whoever this newbie is, he's gonna be pure mystery.

Larry is ashing his dart into a small dish, half listening to Eddie describe a scene from a movie he likes but can't recall the name of , when Joe appears at the table and they all snap to attention.

Larry's first thought is " _Jesus Christ, who's this kid?_ "

Vic gives Eddie a side-eye look. "Fresh meat was right. Joe, you're robbing the cradle here."

"Boys, this is your new playmate. Meet Freddy Newandyke."

Freddy is slender, frame made somehow impossibly smaller by the large leather jacket he's in, an obvious peacock act of trying to fit in with the big dogs. Larry's second observation is his hair, the stupid cut he has it in. Two parted tufts in the front, medium sheer in the back. Larry's almost certain the kid has a freckled face, too, but the lighting of the bar makes it hard to tell.

"Where'd you pick this one up from, Daddy? Junior high?"

Freddy rolls his eyes. "Hey, lay off, man. No need to be intimidated by the youth."

Larry chuckles. "You're still wet around the ears, punk."

"You out of diapers yet?" Vic asks flatly.

Joe clears his throat as way of getting his goons to shut up and it works, all eyes on him. He places a hand to Freddy's shoulder and says, "Kid is clever. Good with lifting. Any lip about him, come to me."

"Oh, I'm sure we could handle it amongst ourselves," Vic hums, giving Eddie a devious smirk.

Joe frowns. "No rough housing," he says sternly. "Not on jobs. I don't give a fuck what you do during downtime. You bust up an asset, your ass is gonna be sore the next day."

Larry is torn between his initial attraction to Freddy—cute, boyish, a nose that humbles his face from being movie star handsome, which is somehow more attractive to Larry; an authentic sort of beauty— and feeling annoyed that he's going to inevitably be paired with the brat. He's not fond of new pups that need to be trained.

Larry is smart enough and old enough that he doesn't trust easily. Mostly keeps to himself. Vic and Nice Guy Eddie are buddy buddy off the clock, but Larry stays off the sidelines. Having a newcomer thrown in the mix is going to off balance the chemistry for a while, but Larry has faith in Joe, unconditionally, so he'll bite the bullet and deal.

"Old enough to drink?" Eddie asks.

"Suddenly care about what's legal in this joint?"

Eddie scoffs. "Ain't about that, asshole. No way am I taking heat for solicitation to a minor, are you fuckin' kidding?"

"Hey, ease up there," Joe interrupts. "No one's getting heat for anything. Freddy, enjoy a drink. Boys, play nice. Get cozy. Freddy proves his track record true, you'll have another swinger up to bat." Joe looks over his crew then says, "I've got to make a call to a connection. Make friends fast because we've got opportunities coming down the pipes."

Freddy inches closer to the table, takes a seat beside Vic, who gives him an up and down.

Larry stubs out his cigarette. "Hope you know what you're in for, buckaroo."

Eddie snickers and even Vic gives a smile at that, though with Vic, it isn't a soft sunshine thing. He smirks like a crocodile. He's putting on a front to intimidate Freddy. Eddie, shooting big, blue doe eyes over at Vega, is entertained.

Freddy shrugs. "Been around once or twice."

"Trips around your mama's basement don't count," Eddie says and Larry snorts, shakes his head.

"Busting your balls, Freddy. Joe says you're a good guy, you're a good guy." Larry offers a hand across the table, which Freddy takes, looking relieved. "Larry Dimick." Indicating with his thumb, he introduces the others, "Vic. Nice Guy Eddie."

Freddy nods his acknowledgement and Eddie passes him a beer, looking almost rueful, and Freddy accepts it with a quiet "Thank you".

"How'd a kid like you get turned up in this mess?" Vic asks. "Start with stealing sodas from the corner store?"

Freddy giggles, goddamn giggles, and says, "Not anything interesting. I mean, I could spin a fuckin' yarn if you ask me to, but the truth ain't stranger than fiction."

"Entertain us, kid," Eddie prompts.

Freddy puts his palms up in mock surrender. "Little kid shit. Hubcaps. Power tools. Got bold and stepped up to stores. Teens get bored, need money. Shit snowballs."

Larry rests his elbow on the table and leans into his own palm. "Give us your craziest lift then."

Freddy sips his beer and thinks about it, eyes going up and to the side as he picks through his memories. "Okay, ready for this one?"

"Ready, Freddy," Eddie answers.

Freddy raises a stiff middle finger, having heard that one probably a million times in his life, then starts in. "So. Walked into one of those Home Depot places, right? Walk around until I get the opportunity. Boom. A fuckin' lift dolly. Storage room is open enough, I slip in, wheel it over to one of the display models. Big ass refrigerator. I mean, not too big, ya know, I had to get the thing on the cart. So I wiggle it in place and I wheel it to check-out. Some ankle biter is running the register."

Freddy pauses to gulp from his bottle, the perfect shuddering moment of silence to really get the guys interested, make everyone hold their breath or cock their head with intrigue.

"Tell the dude my wife went and bought a new fridge. I bought one, too! Ya know, we're renovating the kitchen, wanted to surprise each other. What are the fuckin' _odds_ we _both_ buy a fridge? Don't got a use for two. Kid asks for my receipt. I give a little song and dance— Oh, left it in my jeans, went through the wash, whatever the fuck. Says he can't take returns without it so I promise to come back with my proof of purchase. Kid's all sorry that I gotta lug this useless piece of shit all the way out, but I swear to him it's no hassle. Just store policy, I fuckin' get it man. Bam, I wheel the fucker out into the parking lot, no sweat."

Eddie laughs and Vic raises his eyebrows, face flashing, impressed, before falling neutral again.

Larry grins. "Clever little shit… "

Freddy's proud of himself and his story, smiles around the bottle pressed to his lips. He shrugs a shoulder, no big deal, and says, "People are lazy as shit. They don't want to do anything outside the books. They won't challenge a return with no receipt, sooner let you take anything that ain't nailed down than deal with a problem like that."

Eddie nods along, mutters, "Ain't that the truth."

Larry watches Freddy tip his bottle back, finish his beer. His annoyance has simmered to amusement and if Freddy wasn't a business partner, fuck, Larry might just fall in the love.

* * *

"So? Whadya think of Newandyke?"

Larry bites down a smile. "Color me impressed, Joe," he answers, honest.

"Knew you'd take a shine to him."

Larry shrugs a single shoulder. "Eddie and Vic have their thing," he says, carefully, because he's not sure what their thing is and how much he should be saying about the son of the man he's talking to. "If Freddy's the youngblood, I'll play ball."

Joe nods knowingly, smooths a hand over the top of his desk, though it's very obviously clean. "Don't wanna freeze him out. Eddie and Vic… Ever since Toothpick got out of the cooler, they've been some exclusive fucking club. But I mean, in my day, there was nothing wrong with a little hazing…"

Larry chuckles. "He don't look like he weighs a buck ten soaking wet. Hazing might kill the little shit."

"Mm…" Joe's eyes go up and down over Larry with a warm approval. "Soon as I seen him, I knew you and him— perfect fucking match."

"Why's that?"

"Weasel lifts. You're there to smash any fucker in the nose if shit hits the fan."

"Oh great, so you're hiring me as a babysitter."

Joe points a finger. "You'll be whatever the fuck I say you'll be."

"I know, Papa. Just pain in the ass to break them in."

"He's got time on the field. Some history under his belt. Want you to take him around, show him the ropes."

Larry nods, repositions in his chair. "Made man yet?"

Joe shakes his head. "World ain't the way it used to be, Junior. Kids don't run around like that no more… Asked him. Newandyke ain't even shot a gun dry."

"Fuck," Larry mutters.

Training a shaky finger is the biggest kick to the balls out of this whole mess. Backing a pocket job is easy enough, knowing he'll have a helping hand in other scenes, that's all fine and dandy, but dealing with a kid who's never even held heat? That's downright laughable, it sucks so bad.

"Ease him in with one of the 659s," Larry says, waving a hand. "Go out to the flats and knock over some cans."

"Bring a coonskin cap, too?"

"Buy him a fucking soda pop after for all I care. I have joints my men are casing and if Freddy can get in and out without any attention, that'll save us a lot of fucking heat, now won't it?"

"Cleaner the better."

"Now you're getting it," Joe says, an approving smile stretching out over his face. "Give you two weeks. Shoot some cans, figure out his deal, maybe work some small stuff, then get your ass back here and tell me what the kid can do."

Larry nods.

Could be worse things than driving some punk around and testing his experience, that's for sure.

* * *

"Parents forget to feed you or what?"

Freddy's head whips up from where he's hunched over his own lap. He's dripping ketchup onto the yellow plastic-paper wrapper his burger came in, shoveling fries into his mouth after every bite of meat. He shakes his head and chews faster like he's trying to get his food down so he can respond.

Larry snorts. "Take it easy, kid. I'm just busting your chops."

Freddy swallows loudly and licks a swipe of ketchup from the corner of his mouth. "Fast food junky," he answers. "Know it's bad, but consider it a guilty pleasure."

"Consider it a short walk toward a lifetime of clogged arteries."

"Deal with it as it comes," Freddy dismisses, leaning down to fish around in the brown paper sack by his boots. He pulls out a Mcchicken and starts to unwrap it.

"Can tell you're a kid by the way you talk," Larry laughs. "Won't be so confident when you're my age."

"We here to talk eating habits or business?" Freddy asks around a hunk of lettuce all slathered in mayo, suddenly sounding serious. Or as serious as someone can when they're stuffing their face with grease and bread.

Larry wrinkles his nose and looks out his open window, leans his arm out into the warmth of the sun. "Hard to focus when you're chewing your cud."

"Hey, man, you were the one who offered the food."

Larry's quiet for a minute. He reaches into his cup holder and takes a sip of his root beer, then says, "Joe told me you ain't handled a gun before."

Freddy kind of wiggles in the passenger seat. A subtle adjustment, but Larry's trained to notice and can see the kid move even out of the corner of his eye. "Never needed to."

"Better safe than sorry. Good to know your way around a firearm, in case the need ever comes."

Freddy slurps from his Mountain Dew. "Didn't want to risk getting caught with one."

Larry nods. "Smart for a guy who's just pocketing shit, but if you're going to bark, you need to have a bite."

There's an apprehensive pause. "Sure," Freddy agrees, noncommittal.

"Free tomorrow? You can use one of mine, I'll take you out for practice."

Freddy nods, chews, nods again with more confidence. "Sure. Yeah, man."

"Sounds good then."

Larry twists the key that's still in the ignition and shifts into drive.

* * *

The next day, midday on the dot, Larry pulls up to the curb and leans across the seat, pops the door open. Freddy hops in. Larry takes one look at him and starts laughing.

"What's this? Hand-me-down from a cousin?"

Freddy looks down at the Venom shirt he's wearing, pulls it out by the bottom hem. "Just because I'm a fuckin' criminal don't mean I gotta dress like one," he mutters, defensive.

"You saying I do?" Larry signals left, pulls back out onto the street.

"Slicked back hair thing, yeah. Gonna try out for a part in The Godfather after this?"

"Oh, so the punk is _cultured_."

Freddy giggles and Larry hates that something inside him warms at the sound. Larry digs a cigarette out of the crushed pack in his breast pocket and says, "Light me, will ya?"

Freddy produces a blue Bic lighter and spins the wheel, holds the flame up to the end of Larry's stick.

After a good drag, Larry says, "Rather look like The Godfather than have all that awful hair flopping into my eyes every second."

"Not my fault you're out of touch," Freddy mumbles, shoving the lighter back into his jeans pocket.

They drive in silence for a while, until Freddy gets bold and decides it's safe to turn the radio on, spins the knob and starts surfing the stations. Larry's particular about what he keeps his radio on, but he doesn't want to start a fight and it'd just be for the sake of the argument, he knows. Being a hardass to flex a little power over the kid, but he backs down and lets Freddy pick what they listen to.

It's startling how fast Larry's switched from his initial assumption to now. He thought Freddy would be a handful, a brat that talks back and doesn't know what the fuck he's gotten into, but he's already proving he's on the ball. Good sense of humor, pays attention well.

Larry's scared he's gonna get attached.

He doesn't trust the punk fully yet, no way would he leave Freddy unsupervised, but there's a flame being fanned.

"Taking it this 'shooting range'—" Freddy uses air quotes, "is way the fuck out nowhere."

"Quick learner, squirt."

Freddy huffs a laugh and hunkers down in his seat.

"Nervous?"

Freddy pulls a face. "What's there to be nervous about?"

"Performance pressure, maybe, I don't know." Larry shrugs and slows to a stop at a red light. "Just pointing out you can skip that shit. I'm not Joe and I'm not gonna rip you a new one if you can't hit the broad side of a barn."

"Ain't too worried. I mean, I had a fucking BB gun as a kid, if that counts for something."

"Apples to oranges. I'll get you adjusted."

Another minute of quiet. Larry flicks his cigarette butt out the window.

"Larry?"

"Yeah?"

"How long you known Joe?"

Larry smiles. "Longer than you been on this earth, kid."

"This the first time he's given you a partner?"

Larry considers the question, then says, softly, "Nah. Seen them come and go. Had a few long-term buddies, but it never lasts."

"Why not?"

"What is this? Twenty questions?"

Freddy puts a palm up. "Not trying to pry, man, just making conversation."

"I'll be honest, buddy boy. In this business, it's best not to get too tangled up in anyone." Larry's voice takes on a solemn tone and he licks his chapped lips. "Folks get tagged, get jailed, turn out to be fucking rats. It's better to cut loose before you wind up hurt or dead, okay? Try to know the most you can, but keep it at arm's length."

Freddy nods, listening.

"Vic and Eddie, I known them almost as long as Joe. And don't go around repeatin' this, but Vic ain't exactly someone I wanna catch a movie with, you feel me? Fuckin' psycho. But I tolerate him, make small talk, all that shit, because a friend of the Cabot's is a friend of mine."

"Yeah."

"I’ve had a few partners. Gal, Alabama, for a while, but it was pushing too far and we split. Can't have it all in this line of work. Be polite, be sharp, keep your fucking mouth shut unless someone talks to you. I'm going easy on ya because you're a fresh face, but even Toothpick and Nice Guy Eddie, they might rattle the cage just to fuck with you."

At this point, Larry is starting to wonder who's he's lecturing here: Freddy or himself. Trying to convince his heart not to stray too far, not to be a fucking idiot.

"Just keep on your toes, kid. Stick by me, okay, but don't expect too much of the world."

Freddy sounds tired, experienced, when he mumbles, "Learned that one early on."

Larry doesn't ask.

Freddy doesn't push anymore questions for the rest of the ride.

* * *

"Set 'em up and weigh 'em with pebbles," Larry instructs.

Freddy listens and lines up a bleached soda can, an old tin coffee container, starts funneling pebbles into them like Larry told him to. Larry watches, flips his sunglasses down from the top of his head to his eyes.

They go through the basics: loading, the double stack mags, the advantage of keeping one in the chamber to increase the round to 15, how to use the manual safety, all that jazz. Freddy listens intently, nodding, eyes trained on the sleek silver pistol in Larry's hand as he explains.

"We'll shoot a few rounds, then I'll see how you handle emptying the chamber, okay? Rack the slide and it should eject safely."

Freddy nods, face hard with a determination Larry finds endearing.  
Larry passes the gun over and Freddy turns it over in his palm, pointed away from the both of them.

"Heavier than you thought?"

Freddy nods again and Larry chuckles, says, "You'll get used to it."

Freddy spaces his legs shoulder width apart and raises his right arm into a straight bar and Larry thinks he might look cool if it weren't for the fucking graphic tee he's wearing.

He fires three times, only hits once, and his shoulders slump with instance disappointment.

"Hey, not bad for a new shot," Larry reassures.

Freddy sets up the cans over and over, adding more each time until he's up to ten in a row placed on the edge of the overturned filing cabinet they're using as a target stand. Freddy starts sweating from the desert heat despite the merciful shade of the abandoned building they're standing in. He does fine with loading and emptying the chamber, learns quick about the safety and to squeeze, not jerk when he's pressing on the trigger. Freddy's hand is surprisingly steady and it comes as a relief, means Larry doesn't have to spend much time discussing grip.

Freddy gets to being able to hit 8 cans out of 10 and Larry calls it a day.

Freddy goes and sets up the cans one last time and passes the gun to Larry with a sparkle in his eye, juts his chin forward. "Let's see what you can sling."

"Giving me an opportunity to show you up?"

Freddy nods and he looks downright giddy, like he's on a fishing trip with his dad.

Larry lifts his arm up and squeezes off each shot with a second of pause in between, pings every can so they spin out on the ground. He glances over his shoulder with a cheeky smile.

Freddy's eyes are wide and he mouths, "Fuck…" before breaking out into a wild grin.

* * *

"What took you two so long?" Joe asks over his cup of coffee when Freddy and Larry slump down in their seats.

"You know, if you're going to sit the kid in your lap so he can steer while you work the pedals," Vic says, "it's a lot safer to practice in a parking lot."

Pink, Brown, and Nice Guy Eddie all snicker.

Larry says, "Fuck off. Traffic was a bitch."

"Yeah, but _we_ all made it on time," Brown points out.

"Did I ask for your input?" Larry asks, cupping a hand around his ear.

Freddy giggles.

"Get here on time or I'm gonna boot the both of you," Joe mumbles.

"Heard you took the kid's V card, Dimick,"Eddie says with a shit-eating grin.

Vic starts to hum Madonna's _Like a Virgin._

Larry nearly chokes before he realizes it's meant about guns. Their target practice session was two days ago, stopped for tacos after. Larry claps a hand on Freddy's shoulder, gives him a good natured jostle. "Punk ain't too bad with a 9 mm, I'll give him that much."

"Teach him to shoot now you're dressing him, too," Pink comments.

Freddy subconsciously reaches up to touch his hair, which Larry greased for him not a half hour before, the reason they're late in the first place.

_Larry couldn't stand the idea of taking Freddy to breakfast with the extended crew with his hair the way it was, forced Freddy back into his apartment to change his shirt, comb his hair properly._

_"Your dad never teach you to do this?" Larry asked. He laid a hand on the kid's head, started pushing his hair back, grease holding it in place._

_"Let's say dad wasn't in the picture much," Freddy muttered. "And I didn't want to go around looking like the bastard son of a fucking used car salesman."_

_"Oh, shut up, you goddamn brat. Gonna feel better without all that hair in your face."_

Larry leans in, whispers to Freddy, "Don't listen to that asshole, you look fine."

The waitress comes by and takes orders. Freddy gets a plate of chocolate chip waffles and at least half the people at the table chitter at that.

"What?" Freddy demands, after all orders have been placed. "Hardened so much you can't appreciate a waffle anymore?"

"Should've asked for whipped cream, too," Eddie teases.

"A hot chocolate with a peppermint stick," Vic adds.

"Lay off," Larry mutters. He gives Freddy a bump under the table with the side of his shoe and Freddy returns it with a secretive smile.

Pink smiles softly, eyes amused. "Joe hires new meat and you're foaming at the mouth, Dimick."

"Hey, Pink, why don't you put a gun in your mouth and see how many times you can pull the fuckin' trigger?"

"Settle down, kiddies," Vic says. He sips his coffee. "Sandbox is big enough for all of us."

"Larry's just possessive of his toys," Eddie laughs.

Larry mimes a gun using his thumb and trigger finger, aims it across the table at Eddie, who pretends to slump in his chair. Brown laughs, Vic smiles.

"Was there uh, business to discuss here, Joe?" Brown asks when there's a moment of calm.

Joe shakes his head. "Wanted to see how all my boys are getting along. Apparently you're all as fucking ridiculous as I remember."

The food arrives and not a minute after the plates are set down, Larry takes two strips of his bacon and sets them on the edge of Freddy's dish.

"Attached quick, ain't we?" Eddie asks.

"Look at the fuckin' kid. Looks like he hasn't eaten in weeks," Larry grumbles.

"Boo-fuckin-hoo," Pink cuts in. "Wouldn't catch me sharin' with anyone."

"That's because you're a fuckin' dick," Vic says calmly.

An argument ensues and naturally no one takes Pink's side, Eddie dipping in to paint Vic as a hero, and if Larry were bolder and Eddie not the son of his boss, he'd probably rag on Toothpick and Eddie's situation the way they're teasing him and Freddy this morning.

Larry eats his food, relatively quiet, and when he feels full, he passes Freddy his remaining slice of buttered wheat toast. Freddy doesn't hesitate in shoveling it down with the rest of his meal, lips dusted with crumbs.

"Hey," Larry murmurs, ducking in close again, "use your napkin there, buddy boy."

Larry swears to Christ, a blush rises in Freddy's cheeks as he nods, dabs his mouth clean.

Joe covers the bill, the guys cover the tip, and Larry covers Freddy's cut, which if anyone notices, they don't comment on.

As the guys filter out, Joe puts a hand to Larry's shoulder and says, "Wanna speak to you for a second, Junior."

Larry darts his eyes over to Freddy and he fumbles into his pocket, dumbly passes the keys over to him. "Sit in the car for a second," he says.

Once Freddy's out the door, Joe asks, "Good with the 659?"

Larry nods. "Oh yeah. Real natural. Could use a few more practices, but he's got a good grip, decent aim."

"Good, good… Listen, I want you to test run him this afternoon, okay? Get him to lift something easy and tell me how it goes."

"Call you tonight then, Papa."

Joe smiles. "That's my boy."

Freddy's sitting shotgun in the car, smoking a cigarette and air guitar strumming along to whatever song is on the radio. Larry pauses in the doorway of the diner a minute to watch, smiling without even thinking about it.

Larry gets into the car and Freddy drops his hands neutrally into his lap, turns his head away to blow smoke out his window. La La Love You by The Pixies is playing.

"Saw that," Larry teases.

"Shut the fuck up."

* * *

Larry parks as far left as he can get in the lot then turns to Freddy, says, "Big time to shine, Freddo."

"What, here?" he asks. Freddy cranes his neck up and looks the place over. Small pawnshop with neon lights in the windows, big front display bragging guitars and unlatched cases of expensive power tools.

"Joe wants you to prove your worth. Prove it."

"Haven't cased the place, man, this is fuckin' suicide."

Larry shrugs. "Can lift a refrigerator, you can come back with a trinket."

Freddy huffs and he goes to run his hands through his hair, but stops short when he realizes it's slicked back with nothing to push out of his eyes. His hands fall into his lap and he sighs, then mutters, "Fine, sure, I'll get you a _trinket_ , man," and swings his door open.

Freddy bends down, looks at Larry with a bothered expression. "Hope you realize I'm dressed like a fuckin' criminal. Catch heat, it's on you."

"I can live with that."

Freddy closes the passenger door with more force than necessary and mutters to himself, shoves his hands into the pockets of his unzipped leather jacket.

Larry watches the kid disappear into the dark of the building. He's nervous enough that there's a dew of sweat around his collar, so he finds a cigarette, lights it with the Bic Freddy's left in the center console to calm his nerves. If Freddy's tales of thievery have been true so far, there should be nothing to stress over. Pawnshops aren't easy, but they're not impossible either.

Larry waits. He sucks his smoke down to the filter, flicks it out the window. He counts minutes in his head and just as he's about to kill the engine and go in to see if Freddy's caught, the kid saunters out, whistling that Pixies song.

He slumps down in his seat and flashes a shark grin at Larry. "Pick a hand," he says and holds out his fists.

Larry quirks an eyebrow, but says, "Left."

Freddy opens his hands, both empty, and reaches into his left pocket. He produces a stack of old baseball cards twined with a blue rubber band. "Oh, bummer, man, you got what I call the Mandatory Buy." He hands the deck over.

"Got baseball cards?"

"Can't walk in, pocket, and leave. Gotta buy at least one thing so they don't get wise."

"That's great. What's the steal then?"

Freddy smiles and pulls out a silver wristwatch. "Ding ding ding."

"Shit…" Larry gently takes it from the kid's open palm, turns it over a few times. "How the fuck did you score this?"

"Went in, walked around, seen only one guy at the counter. Said 'Hey, man, you got baseball cards?' and the whole while, I'm inching my hand over this little jewelry tree fuckin' thing they've got. Dude doesn't figure I'm stealing right in front of his eyes, that's the trick. Get bold. Anyways, I gave him this story about my cousin who's major into the cards and I played dumb, said sports ain't my deal and let him charge me way too fuckin' much, but that's the comfort aspect for him. Sucker thinks he's fucked me, I've got a watch in my pocket."

Larry shakes his head. "You're something else, tough guy…"

"Hey, consider that a gift."

Larry looks up, eyebrows tight. "What?"

Freddy shrugs. "Cover for all the meals you've bought me."

There's a pause. Larry gives Freddy a soft pat on the knee and whispers, "You're a good kid…"

* * *

"What's the score?"

"Came out with a fuckin' wristwatch."

There's a smile in Joe's voice when he says, "Knew he was good for his word."

"Couldn't believe it, Joe. He went in fuckin' blind! Comes back with that." Larry rubs at his chin, cradles the phone between his ear and shoulder. "Got techniques, too. Ain't a chump, that's for sure."

"Punk has potential. Knew it when I saw him."

"You got fences?"

"Oh, don't you worry about fences, Junior. Have him lift and bring it to me. I'll turn it to cash fast."

Larry smiles to himself, stirs the soup he's boiling on the stove. "Cash is king, Papa, you know it best."

"Don't frequent the same lot too many times. No familiarity. No known faces. Don't spend too much time looking at the merchandise."

Larry clicks his stove off.

"And Larry? That last part applies to you as well."

Larry pretends like he has no idea what Joe is talking about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "see how many times you can pull the trigger" line is from mobster louis "pretty" amberg
> 
> thank you magrai for being a wonderful beta & friend


	2. like a prayer for which no words exist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for the following: alcohol, drug use (pot), depictions of injuries & blood
> 
> chap title from richard siken

Larry drives Freddy around, tells him to hit a store, and the kid always comes back lucky. Fingers like magnets was an understatement. Freddy swipes CDs, jewelry, pockets headphones, little antique collector items like engraved spoons and coins from the 1860s, returns to the car with a smile and a carton of expensive perfume bottles shoved down the front of his jeans. If it ain't in a display case and no one's looking, items are as good as gone.

Larry has watched him in the act a few times now. The part that Larry fixates the most on is the one on one interactions, like check-out. A clerk will be ringing up whatever Freddy has chosen for his Mandatory Buy and Freddy will touch their shoulder, give them doe eyes. He bites his bottom lip and keeps his eyes trained low, on their mouths, and Larry's positive there aren't that many closeted men willing to risk it in public in one area for this to work, but men and women both, they always look smitten. Freddy's all smiles, confident but dumb, makes small talk, fiddles with the mints by the cash register. He asks questions that give the illusion of naiveté about what he's purchasing, purposefully cocks his head to an angle, and lets sellers think they're pulling one over on some punk.

His outfits help, too. Comic book superheroes over his chest, regular blue jeans. A plaid unbuttoned. When his hair isn't greased, he looks young and approachable and Larry understands why the kid keeps it that way. It's disarming. Boy looks like he's going to ask the way to the nearest pizza joint, not make off with all your stock.

Freddy doesn't just steal to make a profit, either. Larry's hauled back two crates of goods to Joe and come away a happy man with money split between him and Freddy, but it's obvious Freddy gets a rise out of the act. There's a glimmer in his eye every time, probably gets hit with a wave of adrenaline and pride when he walks out the doors safely. He takes yo-yos, comic books, swipes a stick of gum or a carton of cigarettes if he can.

A week into their boosting, Freddy comes back and pulls a double pack of cigarillos out of the waistband of his boxers once he's settled in the passenger seat. He passes them to Larry.

"Gettin' cocky, kid."

"Gettin' better by the day."

"Ain't a game," Larry says, but he's smiling.

"Not for them."

Larry offers tacos and Freddy, insatiable as he is, agrees happily. Freddy's quiet during the drive over, which is uncommon. Usually, after he steals, he can't shut up, tries to shake some praise out of Larry, talks about his days before Joe. Today, though, he fiddles with the radio dials, a habit Larry has only scolded him once for, and even that was just Larry being an insincere hard ass, and sucks on a cigarette.

Once they're seated at a picnic table, shaded by a large orange and white umbrella, Larry asks, "What's eating on you, tough guy?"

"What?"

"Quiet as a church mouse on the way over."

Freddy shrugs and takes a slug of his Coke, Larry watching the brown soda shoot up through the clear plastic straw and disappear into the kid's mouth. "Know you said Eddie and Vic— they're gonna rattle me a bit, but do they even fuckin' like me?"

Larry frowns. "Oh, course they do. Christ, Freddy, trust me, you'd _know_ if they didn't."

"Yeah?"

Larry swallows a bite of soft shell taco, nods. "Guys are cold, but we're all impressed with you."

"Wait. Really?"

"Is that so hard to believe?"

Freddy looks sheepish, drops his eyes away to focus on his taco. "Hard to tell, ya know? Not like you guys are the friendliest fuckin' bunch."

Larry smiles. "All the ragging, means they like you. Ever have someone tell you if a boy bullies a girl it's because he has a crush on her? That's all Vic and Eddie are doing. Breaking you in, seeing if they can scare ya."

"I mean, they're funny and all, but I dunno. You're the only one who seems to give me any credit," Freddy mutters.

"You've got potential, I'm the only one willing to admit it. Other guys, they don't wanna acknowledge that some kiddie is better at something than they are."

Freddy hums, slurps from his soda again.

"What? Nervous about seeing them tonight?"

Freddy shrugs a shoulder and squints from the sun that's cutting over the top half of his face. Larry passes him his sunglasses and Freddy puts them on. "I just don't wanna say the wrong shit."

"Just drinks with the guys, they won't be focused any on you."

There's a lull and Larry watches casually as Freddy forces a third of a taco into his mouth, slender fingers all smeared with orange grease as it runs off, trails down to his wrists. Freddy looks nice wearing Larry's sunglasses; they frame his face well. Larry allows that thought to sit, thinking Freddy looks nice wearing something that belongs to Larry, without any guilt chasing after it.

"Larry?"

"Yeah?" Larry startles, blinks his eyes into focus.

"Thank you for like— Thanks for giving me a chance, man."

"Ah." Larry waves a hand. "That's on you, buddy boy. If you were a shit, I'd have tossed you on your ass."

Freddy smiles, breathes a single laugh. He licks his fingers clean and Larry looks off to the left.

"Larry?"

"That the only word you know?"

"Ain't my business but are Vic and Eddie…? You know, are they together?"

Larry hums. "Not really sure. Not my business either."

"Yeah."

"Got something against it?"

Freddy tosses his hands up. "Hey, free love or whatever. I don't give a shit what those guys are about."

Larry sits on that one for a moment, wonders if it means anything. He glances at his watch, the one Fredy stole for him. “Got a few hours before we’re supposed to meet the guys… Anything you wanna do before then?”

Freddy crumples up a napkin, drops it on the table in a wad. “Go back to my place, smoke a little, if you want?”

Larry’s mouth and heart answer before his brain can switch on and he says, “Sure, kid,” and gets up to clear their trash.

* * *

They sit in Freddy’s living room, pass a cone back and forth while the television hums out Mad Max 2, though neither of them seem particularly focused on it. Larry’s starting to loosen up and it’s probably not a good thing, but he allows it.

Freddy’s apartment is messy, Larry had noticed it the first and only other time he'd been in, when he’d combed Freddy’s hair, but it looks like he’s attempted, somewhat, to pick up a little. There are dirty dishes in the sink, an open box of cereal on the counter, but it’s all contained to that one space, no longer spread out on the coffee table and left on the bookshelves. A lot of Freddy’s personal loot litters the place: wind-up robots, rolls and rolls of unopened Mentos, stacks of cassette tapes still in their transparent packaging.

Handing the joint back to Freddy, Larry coughs and asks, “The stealing. Is it an impulse?”

Freddy blinks over at Larry and smiles, smug and dreamy, joint bobbing off his bottom lip. “Good feelin’, you know, knowing I can just have whatever I want whenever I want.”

“You sound like a spoiled brat.”

“Maybe I fuckin’ am.” Freddy snickers, shifting on the couch so he’s slumped further down against the cousins. He Vs his legs open and his knee bumps against Larry’s and stays there, leaned on him.

Larry feels the warmth of Freddy seep into him, through the double layer of denim, and when he reaches for the weed, their fingers touch.

"Wanted to be him," Freddy pipes up. "When I was little."

"Mad Max?"

"Yeah, I mean, what kid didn't? Guns, cars, no laws… A bitchin' leather jacket."

Larry drags deep, breathes out. "Guess you're workin' toward it."

Freddy smiles, gooey as a very soft cookie, and he brushes his hand over Larry's knee. They both breathe the dank, stagnant air a moment, the television flashing colors over their faces, which are growing more and more shadowed from the setting sun.

Finally, Freddy pulls his hand away and says, "Sorry, I— Gonna be too baked to leave the house if I keep toking like this."

Larry's heart wrenches at the apology. He wants Freddy so fucking bad it hurts, it aches, but he's not supposed to mix work and play and Freddy's a hell of a lot younger than him and before just now, Larry was unsure of how Freddy felt and shit, Larry's still not exactly clear what's going down.

"Don't worry about it, kid," he mumbles dumbly.

Freddy swallows and stands. "I gotta piss. Then we can go?"

Larry nods, looks at the kid's legs as he steps past to head to the bathroom. "Yeah. Guys are probably there already."

Larry can hear Freddy clink the toilet seat up. He shifts, considering the situation, then blots the dying embers of the roach out in the ashtray and gets up. He switches the television off.

On light toes, Larry lingers outside the bathroom door.

"Freddy?"

"Yeah?"

Larry adjusts how his tongue lays in his mouth. "Want me to do up your hair for ya?"

The toilet flushes, water runs in the sink. Freddy says, "Sure, man," and then swings the door open. He blinks like he's surprised at how close Larry is.

"One day you'll have to do this on your own, you know," Larry jokes in an attempt to lighten the tension.

Freddy smiles, shaking his head, and he gets out a tube of Brylcreem, used once, a gift from Larry. "Only grease up when I'm gonna be with the crew," he mumbles.

Freddy turns around and hesitates, looking at Larry in the small space of the bathroom, then asks, "How do you—Where do you want me?"

Larry swallows. "Drop the lid, sit down."

Freddy obeys and Larry crowds him. It's one bad choice after the other tonight. Freddy looks up at him and Larry's stomach flips, eyes zipping away to the tube in his hands. He fumbles and the little white lid clatters to the tile floor, spinning like a top at how he'd been unscrewing it.

"Fuck."

Larry bends down at the same time Freddy reaches for it and they nearly smack skulls, fingers searching for the small circle of plastic, fingers accidentally brushing.

Larry stands up, feeling out of breath, and Freddy shows him the cap laid flat in his palm, says, with a little giggle, "I'll hang on to it till you're done."

"Yeah. Good idea." Larry gets on with it, lathers his hands. He brushes Freddy's hair back, starts to part it, and Freddy closes his eyes. His face is slack and Larry allows himself to sneak a look, study the hairs of his eyebrows, the freckles dotted over Freddy's cheekbones. He can smell the weed and faint taco seasoning wafting off him, along with some sort of deodorant, probably Old Spice or whatever is it the kids use these days.

Larry runs his hands over Freddy's hair again and Freddy's head lolls a bit with the motion, neck exposed and straining his Adam's apple. Larry swallows, continues to rake Freddy's hair back.

One bad choice after the other.

* * *

"Joe pay you extra for moving ice if you fuck the kid who palms it?" Vic asks.

Larry's face hardens, glass of whiskey lowering from his mouth. The ice clinks. "You know, Vic, I'm not sure… Same rule apply to you and Eddie?"

"Don't fucking talk to Vic like that," Eddie cuts in, suddenly at attention.

Freddy giggles, fawns his eyes over all the guys like he's having a great time and it's probably because he's a light weight and already on his way to being hammered.

Pink snorts. "You guys should know better than to shit where you eat."

Eddie spits, "Who fuckin' asked you?" at the same time Larry mumbles, "You guys don't know shit."

"Was a serious question," Vic says, cocking his head innocently. His blue eyes catch the light and sharpen, smug. "Wanted to know about the… benefits."

Freddy finishes off his cocktail, which he got a great deal of shit for when he ordered it, and plucks the little umbrella out of the glass to suck on the end. "Benefits would be…," he starts softly. "Oh, say, don't have to worry about a wife or whoever finding out about your line of work if they're in on it."

Vic grins. "Kid's sharp."

"Gonna settle down with an ex-con someday?" Eddie asks, anger gone from his face. He gives Freddy a playful nudge.

"I'm not saying that," Freddy laughs. He draws the spear out of his mouth, leaves his tongue lolling on his chin a moment too long then sets the green, paper umbrella on the table. "Just. I mean, I don't know a single fuckin' guy— _or girl_ , who don't like sex. Some people _kill_ for that shit, literally." Freddy shrugs. "No risk of falling in love with someone who's gonna end up putting you behind bars if you sleep with someone who's got a rap sheet like your own."

Larry thinks _Man, is this kid fucking plastered_.

"Larry, I apologize for being crass," Vic says, raising his right hand as a mocking gesture of sincerity. "You and the punk have it _all_ figured out."

Larry doesn't validate Vic with a response, just drains down the rest of his whiskey.

Ignoring the rest of the chatter at the table, Freddy leans in and whispers, "Can you get me another drink, Larry?"

"You've had more than enough, buddy boy. Don't think I forgot about that dope you smoked."

"Jus' one more, man, then you can cut me off."

"Hey, c'mon, Larry," Eddie says, able to overhear easily since he's seated right beside Freddy. "Get the squirt a drink. He's done a good enough job to deserve it, ain't he?"

Freddy grins, pleased and pleading, and Larry couldn't say no if his life depended on it, those big round eyes begging, so he gets up from the table and goes to the bar, orders another round. He leans on the bar and watches Freddy from across the room. Kid is starting to sway a bit in his seat and he's smiling at all the guys, even Pink, who must be arguing about something because his face is pinched. It's the loosest Larry's ever seen Freddy, lax from the grass and alcohol, but as much as Larry's enjoying the evening, glad to see the kid come out of his shell, it's a little worrying.

He'll have to ensure the kid gets home safe.

He returns to the table with beers and he's everyone's personal hero as he passes them around. Freddy shows his thanks by leaning his head to Larry's shoulder, his greasy hair mussed where he's pressed against Larry's Hawaiian shirt, a few curls falling into his face.

"Can't even hold your head up?" Larry jokes.

Freddy giggles, but he swallows and his voice is soft and serious when he whispers, "Good excuse, I guess."

Larry drinks his beer very slowly.

Vic decides he's hammered enough that he wants to dance and as guessed, Eddie agrees to join him as soon as Vic is out of his seat. Brown and Pink go for a smoke despite Pink saying over and over, every week, it seems, he's going to quit, so it leaves only Freddy and Larry at the table.

"How you feelin'?"

"Like I gotta piss."

Larry chuckles and gently nudges Freddy off him, says, "Okay, let's hit the bathroom and then I'm calling you a fucking cab."

Freddy slurs agreeably and gets to his feet. The alcohol catches up to him, sloshes around inside him at the movement, and he puts a hand on Larry's back for balance.

In the bathroom, it's quiet and cool. Freddy takes a piss at the urinal while Larry washes his hands.

Larry leads Freddy outside and leans the kid against a wall, keeps him propped up. "Gonna be right here," Larry reassures him. "Gonna be lookin' at you. Right here." He goes the few feet to the pay phone and rings a cab.

Larry waits with Freddy until the taxi pulls up. He sits Freddy in and leaning over the kid into the car, he tells the driver the destination, pays him in advance.

Freddy grabs the bottom hem of Larry's shirt as Larry leans away to close the door and Freddy looks up at him. "Thank you, man," he says. "Fer takin' care of me."

Larry smiles around the sudden soreness of his heart, pats Freddy on the shoulder. "Don't mention it, kid."

He closes the door and Freddy slumps down in his seat. The car rolls away and Larry watches until the red of the taillights are twin embers on the horizon, eventually turns a corner and disappears completely.

Larry has a smoke then returns to the bar, finds Vic and Eddie sitting awfully close, Eddie almost wedged into Toothpick's lap. They're both sweaty and smiling and the delighted secrecy in their eyes is enough to let Larry know he should go elsewhere. Pink and Brown aren't to be seen and Joe has long since called it a night, so Larry decides there's nothing left here for him. He doesn't interrupt Eddie or Vic with a goodbye and makes for the door to call himself a ride home.

* * *

Larry is restless when he gets into his apartment. Something feels off inside him, uneasy, and he drops his keys on the table, sits down to take his shoes off. He's got one unlaced when he stops. One shoe on, the other foot stockinged, Larry goes over to the phone and calls Freddy.

No answer.

That's enough that the dog circling in Larry's gut and refusing to lie down is convinced he's got to go check in, see that Freddy made it home safe.

He puts his shoe back on, scoops up his keys, and heads out the door.

* * *

There are thin, curved lines of chocolate-syrup dark blood in the carpet. They evolve into dime-sized drops, a spatter every few inches. Larry starts to breathe heavily through his nose, careful not to step in the red trail leading to Freddy's doorway, keeping his head down, eyes trained. On the doorknob, Larry notices a smudged, bloody fingerprint.

Larry feels incredibly sobered by the scene and starts pounding on the door, hollering for the kid, loud enough that a neighbor peeks their head out to investigate. When Larry glares at them over his shoulder, they duck back into their apartment.

"It's Dimick!" he announces, hysterical. "Kid, open up!"

Larry's starting to think about what he could use to bust the lock, shatter the knob with the butt of the floor's fire extinguisher, when a latch is turned and the door opens.

It's Freddy and he's alive and coherent, but he's got a hand pressed tightly to his side just above his hip. His white shirt is soggy with wet blood. He's in his boxers, blood running down his thigh.

"Larry?"

"Oh, Jesus. Okay. Okay. Jesus. Let's get in. Let's go inside." Larry pushes Freddy into the apartment, nudging the door shut behind them with his shoe. "What's going on? How fuckin' bad is it?"

Freddy's hands are shaking and his eyes dart around, birdlike and confused. "Pretty bad, Larry. Not _hospital_ bad but I never been cut like this"

Larry puts his hand to Freddy's shoulder and starts to guide him towards the small kitchen area. "Let's get you down… There we go." He eases Freddy into a chair then tugs at the sleeve of his shirt. "See how bad it is."

Larry's mind is racing. He's not sure what's even going on in here. There could be someone else in the apartment, could be an assault Larry has walked in on. Bullet, knife, nothing is known. His heart is pounding in his ears.

Freddy wrestles out of the ruined shirt, drops it to the floor. His hands tremor worse. He's got shiny streaks of blood in his hair now.

Larry drops into a squat and is greeted by a crescent moon sliced into Freddy's side. A bit of muscle peaks through, fleshy pink, but it's not terribly deep. Larry swallows and gets to his feet, starts opening all the cabinets in Freddy's kitchen, goes into the bathroom.

"Tell me what the fuck happened," Larry says loudly, swiping away the Brylcreem and toothpaste. "Who poked you, Freddy?"

"Guy. Uh. Was waiting outside on the steps."

Larry returns to him with a bottle of peroxide. "Okay and what next?" Larry gets back on the floor and moves Freddy's hand away from the wound, which he'd been covering with his palm again. "What next, tough guy?"

"I sell him grass sometimes, you know, but…" Freddy gulps. "He knew I swiped some shit from his flat the last time I was over and. And he got me with a knife."

"Christ. Okay. Alright. And what were you doing before I got here? Just standing around in your apartment?"

Freddy seems both confused and exhausted. "I don't fucking know. I was gonna get in the shower and clean off— get in the shower and see how bad it was. I was getting undressed and then you knocked and—"

"Okay. Okay. Give me your hand." Larry reaches up for Freddy and Freddy grips him tight with his bloody palm, fingers slick and sliding over to interlock with Larry's. "Gonna feel weird for a minute. But you're alright." Larry dumps a good splash of peroxide over the wound and it fizzles audibly.

Freddy tenses and lets out a breath.

"Did he stab or slice?"

"What?"

"Did he stab or slice?" Larry repeats. He gets up and searches the cabinets again, finds a half drunk bottle of whiskey that'll work just fine.

"I don't fuckin' know, man!" Freddy spits, frustrated. "He _gutted_ me! What does it fucking matter?"

Larry ignores the heat in Freddy's voice. "It matters," he says softly, "because a slice is _much_ worse than a stab. A slice will spill your guts right out. A stab hurts a lot but it's less likely to be fatal." 

"He… He stabbed me. Just a quick in and out. A poke."

"Good. That's good. Okay, tough guy, this one is gonna hurt, but you're gonna be alright after this." Larry shows him the whiskey as a way of letting him know what's happening and Freddy groans, reaches his hand back out to Larry.

The whiskey is poured over the wound and Freddy whines, tightens his grip on Larry's hand, the blood gumming dry between them. The lines of Freddy's neck draw up tight and he mutters, "Fuckin' shit…"

The procedure continues with less word from Freddy. Larry reassures him calmly as he works, taping the wound over with gauze and when it doesn't bleed through, he knows Freddy won't need stitches, just needs to be careful not to strain the wound. He calls him "buddy boy" and "tough guy" and holds his hand, pats Freddy's bare knee.

"And what does blood mean?" Larry asks, not expecting an answer. He helps Freddy to his feet and takes him into the bathroom, sits him on the edge of the tub so he can wash the blood off him. "Blood means you're _alive_. And there was a lot of it, but it's because it was near a major artery." Larry pats Freddy's thigh. "Got a lot of blood in there."

He finds a clean washcloth and runs it under some warm water.

"Must be the high of a lifetime… Blood loss, shock, dope, booze." Larry chuckles and shakes his head. "Gonna worry me to death."

Freddy looks pitiful when Larry turns around to tend him. "I'm sorry, Larry, I'm sorry…"

"Don't be sorry." Larry dabs blood off Freddy's face, off his legs. "Just don't go fucking over people from the circles you run in, tough guy."

"Okay…"

Larry starts to clean the crusts of dry blood out from under Freddy's nails. "We should get you back at the range soon… I'll feel a hell of a lot better knowing you're packing."

"Joe ain't gonna trust me anymore if he knows I did something so fucking stupid."

"Hey, none of that. Cancel that shit right now. What Joe don't know won't hurt him. I'll keep this quiet if you promise never to do this again."

"I promise, Larry."

Larry pats his shoulder and says, "Good boy… That's a good boy…"

Larry puts Freddy safely to bed, dressing him in a new shirt and giving him a moment of privacy to change into clean boxers. Larry pulls a blanket over him and Freddy reaches a loose arm up, encircles Larry's wrist with his slender fingers, murmuring, "Larry… Larry…"

"Gonna be in the next room," Larry soothes, untangling from him. "I'll check on you, okay? Gonne be right out there."

Larry scrubs the blood off the floor, the chair, and once he's satisfied he's got it all, he sits on the couch and smokes a cigarette with the TV going. He stays awake as long as he can just in case Freddy gets up or the cut reopens, but each time Larry sticks his head into the bedroom, Freddy is snoring loudly, curled fetal with the sheets a mess around him. Larry fixes them a couple of times, but realizes it's a futile effort when he always returns to find Freddy has kicked them off.

Eventually, Larry can't stay up a minute more and he dozes off on the couch.

* * *

The next morning, Larry changes Freddy's bandages. The soiled ones peel away, sticky with serum that's leaking out from around the edges of the angry scabs and Freddy winces. Ointment is applied. Freddy's taped up and after he pisses, brushes his teeth, Larry fixes him breakfast. The kid's fridge is stocked mostly with condiments, but he's got a few eggs in a carton, and Larry works with that.

Larry serves him scrambled eggs with toast and he watches from across the small table as Freddy wolfs it down.

"How'd you know to come over last night?" Freddy finally asks.

Larry shrugs, sucks on his cigarette. "Oh, I dunno… Experienced intuition."

Freddy's quiet. He finishes his plate.

"Joe's got a moving job coming up soon," Larry says. "We talked last night. We'll have to case beforehand, but if you're not up to it…"

"I am. I'm cool. I was being a fuckin' pansy last night."

Larry smiles despite himself. "First time?"

"Been having a lot of first times lately, it feels like."

Larry ignores the innuendo, feels Freddy's eyes on him. "Well. It's done and over with. Now you're a big boy."

Freddy smiles a small, shy smile, dips his chin down like he's bashful.

The few dishes Larry has dirtied making breakfast get washed and Larry explains he's got to get back to his apartment in case Joe calls with details of the job, tells Freddy to rest up for the day.

At the door, Larry says, "I'll come by tomorrow with pain killers or something, okay? Stay inside. You have my number?"

"Have your number."

Larry nods, gives Freddy one last look over. "Good. Good… Don't forget to change bandages every so often."

"Okay, _mom_."

"Don't get wise on me, you fuckin' punk."

They both smile and Larry closes the door gently behind himself.

* * *

Joe calls that night.

"Talk to Newandyke?"

"Yeah, I was at his place today. He says he's up for it."

"Good. That's real fuckin' good, Junior… And Larry?"

"Yes, Papa?"

Joe clears his throat. "Wanna say… whatever is going on between you and Freddy, I don't mind either way—"

"Joe, there's nothing—"

"Would you shut the fuck up and listen to me? What you two do is your own fucking business and so long as it doesn't fuck up jobs, I don't care what it is you do… I don't want to hear about it, but it don't sit right with me tellin' you Newandyke is off limits when my own son is… " There's a long pause. "When Eddie is so close with Vic, you understand?"

"Yes, Papa."

"And you don't have to tell Eddie I'm wise to what's going on with him and Toothpick, you hear? That's between us."

"I know the score."

"Good…," Joe says, sounding relieved. "Get Freddy fitted with a 659 and we'll get together for a sit down next week. Pink, Brown, Vic, Eddie, they'll be on hand if need be."

Larry confirms and they say their goodbyes and Larry sits there on the edge of his bed, in his underwear, looking at the phone on the receiver for a long moment.

* * *

Larry is back at Freddy's apartment the next day. He brings a plastic shopping bag of both necessities and goodies: pain reliever, extra bandages, a new tube of ointment, a packet of Skittles, a can of root beer, and a carton of cigarettes.

Seated on the couch, Freddy digs through and rips the Skittles open with his teeth.

Larry laughs and sits down beside him. "You're something else, son…"

"Body is healing," he answers, chewing loudly. "Needs sugars."

"Oh, excuse me, I didn't know you had a degree in medicine."

"Nah, man, I just know basic nutrition. Sugars turn into energy in the body."

"Are you a doctor? 'Cuz I don't believe it with all those cigarettes and french fries and—"

Freddy laughs and raises his middle finger. "Did you come here to see if I was okay or to nag my ear off?"

Larry smiles. "Both." He licks his lips and looks away from Freddy to the blank television, where he watches Freddy in the reflection. "How's the gouge treatin' ya?"

Freddy makes a so-so motion with his hand. "Smarts like a bitch, but ain't anything major."

"No internal pains?"

"Nope."

"I think you'll live."

Freddy smiles and Larry swears, while the kid's reaching for the remote to turn on the TV, he also scoots an inch closer.

* * *

They drive out to the "shooting range" with the radio on and the windows cranked down. Freddy's quiet on the drive and so is Larry, but the silence seems natural, unhurried, and it's an easy comfort Larry didn't know he was missing; to just sit with someone and not feel obligated to fill the air. The other guys, they're always joking and barking, trying to rile the room, but Freddy drapes his arm out the window and mouths along to songs and it makes Larry happy.

Freddy knows the drill and he immediately sets the cans up on the overturned filing cabinet, fills them with sand and pebbles. He names the parts of the gun correctly and successfully ejects a bullet to demonstrate he knows how to check the chamber safely. Shoulders squared, feet apart, he shoots.

Larry watches with soft eyes, not moved once, not even by the loud bangs.

Freddy goes from 3 out of 5 to 8 out of 10. Eventually, he cleans a whole row and gun lowered, he turns around on his heel to grin, giddy, at Larry who returns the smile with approval.

"Look at you. Regular gun slinger now."

"Learned from the best."

"Who's that?"

"Larry 'Two Guns' Dimick."

Larry chuckles, heart doing a backflip, and he tells Freddy to do one more round to finish off the magazine and then they can head home.

They pack up and on the way to the car, Freddy's whistling that Pixies song again. He gets into the passenger seat and slips a cigarette between his lips.

"Could you light me?"

Larry uncaps his lighter, spins the wheel, and holds it out. Freddy bobs his stick into the flickering flame and once Larry's closed the cap, Freddy pipes up again, "Lemme see that?"

Confused, Larry opens his palm to present the lighter and Freddy takes it, feigning momentary interest, then drops it into the cup holder. Before Larry can scold him, Freddy threads his fingers into Larry's.

They hold hands the entire drive back.

Freddy thinks he's hiding his smile well, but Larry can see it in his side view mirror, and inside, Larry's smiling just as wide.

* * *

Joe's sit down is a few days later. It's a secure meet up in an abandoned factory building. Joe explains the situation, assigns everyone code names so if communication is needed, they won't be shouting out their legal names in front of cops, can't be traced. Freddy becomes Orange, Larry becomes White, so on and so forth. There's little arguing, save for Pink who always finds something to bitch about, and then they're turned loose to prepare for the big day.

Larry and Freddy case the place a few times, usually from the comfort of Larry's car, sipping sodas and watching when traffic is heaviest. Freddy walks his fingers over to Larry's thigh and Larry knows what he's getting at, so they hold hands. Sometimes Larry puts his arm around the back of Freddy's seat. They talk strategy and Freddy watches Larry like he's hung the goddamn moon in the sky, even when he's talking about breaking noses and cutting off fingers.

Larry takes Freddy in to get a suit, as is protocol, all of the guys demanded to dress the same to remain anonymous. He beams at the kid, watching the tailor measure him and Freddy goes red, smiles down at his shoes.

The night before the heist, Larry stays over Freddy's apartment, their suits hanging side by side in the closet. Freddy asks Larry to share the bed, his reasoning being that the couch won't give Larry the proper rest he needs. Since he's been given Joe's blessing, Larry isn't afraid of getting attached to Freddy, so he slides in beside him. They spoon to sleep.

In the morning, Larry cooks Freddy french toast and helps him grease his hair, properly tie his tie.

Larry adjusts his collar and taking a step back to look Freddy over, says, "Look slick, kid."

"You don't look too fucking bad yourself, Mr. White."

Freddy inches closer and the air around them thickens and warms like dough rising in an oven. Larry cups Freddy's face, runs his thumb over Freddy's cheekbone.

"Nervous?"

"No reason to be," Freddy answers in a whisper. His eyes are trained on Larry's mouth.

"Thatta boy. You're gonna do great."

Freddy's lips tease a smile and then he's dipping closer, pressing an achingly soft kiss against Larry who brings both hands up to cup his face.

"Kiss me again and we'll be late to our stations," Larry breathes.

Freddy grins and goes red and obediently untangles himself from Larry's touch. "Will just have to wait."

* * *

Freddy reaches blindly for the doorknob, backing himself up until the heel of his foot is jammed against the door, and he jabs his key toward where he thinks the lock is. Larry's working his tie off frantically, kissing at him like he's trying to get air in his lungs.

"Gotta get the door open," Freddy murmurs between kisses.

"Fuckin' genius, kid. Did so damn good today," Larry growls.

Larry's been hot since the morning and seeing Freddy make away with a sack of diamonds worth more than Larry can even begin to imagine only fanned the flame. The adrenaline from the shooting, the helter-skelter drive to the rendezvous was a bucket of gasoline, made Larry's hands shake.

They've made it safely to their hotel room, told to stay away from their apartments for the time being in case the area is hot, and Larry can't hold back a second longer.

Freddy finally gets the key in and the door opens and the two of them stumble through the threshold, Larry's hands gripping Freddy's slender hips tightly. Larry kicks the door shut.

"You gorgeous little thief," Larry pants. "You perfect mind…"

"Larry…," Freddy murmurs.

Larry manages to get Freddy's tie off and starts unbuttoning his white dress shirt, kissing his way down Freddy's pale chest. Freddy makes wonderful noises above him. He's completely knelt now and when he untucks the shirt from Freddy's pants, he manhandles Freddy around to access his side. He kisses gently at the healing mark there, half scar, half scab, and Freddy shivers.

Rising to his feet, Larry captures Freddy's mouth in a desperate kiss. "Look you. Do you know how fuckin' _proud_ we all are?" Larry doesn't give him a chance to answer, keeps pressing kissing into his mouth. "My boy. My sweet, smart Orange…"

Freddy smiles, melting at the praise. "Gonna keep talking all night or you gonna fuck me?"

Larry grins wolfishly. "Oh, buddy boy, you don't know what you're in for…"

And with that, Larry walks Freddy back towards the king sized bed in the center of the room, heart full and hammering, and lays Freddy down to show him just how proud he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a game of "can you spot the over obvious movie reference?"
> 
> didn't intend for this to go how it went but im not mad abt it!
> 
> highkey headcanon that freddy would totally be into grunge, hence the pixies
> 
> thank you for reading! this fic was really fun and i hope you enioyed!
> 
> you can find me on tmblr @ficfucker


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